


Sweetness to Bear

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Arachnophobia, Crying, Dysphoria, Egg Laying, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Oviposition, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Web Avatar Martin Blackwood, Xenophilia, like it's soft and gay just also kinda fucked up, martin is a spider monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dealing with Martin these last few months has been… interesting.  Jon tries not to think too deeply about the fact that he’s been…consortingwith a monster. But Martin had saved his life, had helped him recover from Prentiss’ attack, had eventually taken Jon back to the surface and, most importantly, hadn’t tried to fucking eat him. That had to count for something.It really had to. Because Jon had let himself get too comfortable with the tarantula stalking his office. Had let his guard down because of Martin’s unrelenting, seemingly genuine doting.Jon was an idiot. Really, he was.Because now he is in the tunnels, bound, and Martin is approaching, and Jon is painfully aware of how small he is.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 224
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags! There is aftercare following both sex scenes in this fic, but Jon still has a pretty rough time of it during/after the process. 
> 
> Terms used for Jon are entrance/hole and cock.

Jon hates the tunnels. He hates being down here at the best of times (which have not ever existed), but he especially hates being down here while disoriented and naked, wrists bound by silk. Though the bite on his shoulder is no longer throbbing, Jon can feel it, and can feel irritation through the cloud of fog that had been injected into his bloodstream. He wonders how long ago Martin did that. Wonders why he’s naked, and if he can get to his feet without suffering a dizzy spell so bad he would fall and break his head open and die. **  
**

That might still be better than whatever else is about to happen. Dealing with Martin these last few months has been… interesting. Complicated in ways that would honestly be funny if they weren’t quite so horrific. Jon tries not to think too deeply about the fact that he’s been… _consorting_ with a monster. So willingly, too, and for so long. But Martin had saved his life, had helped him recover from Prentiss’ attack, had eventually taken Jon back to the surface and, most importantly, hadn’t tried to fucking eat him. That had to count for something. 

It really had to. Because Jon had let himself get too comfortable with the tarantula stalking his office. Had let his guard down because of Martin’s unrelenting, seemingly genuine doting. Martin had fur and extra eyes and too many arms and fangs and silk. But he also had a voice so sweet that Jon, for some reason, however subconsciously, allowed himself to trust the terrifying spider creature that seemed inappropriately fixated on him. 

Jon was an idiot. Really, he was.

Because now he is in the tunnels, bound, and Martin is approaching, and Jon is painfully aware of how small he is. 

“Martin?” His voice comes out rough and slightly slurred. Jon tries to clear his throat, tries not to let his voice tremble as Martin draws closer. “Martin, what, what are you doing? Why did you bite me?” 

“You would have struggled,” Martin says plainly, honestly, and that’s really what’s been getting Jon caught up, what’s led him down this path. Because Elias had tried very hard to dissuade Jon from talking to Martin. He’d been feeding Jon statements about invisible strings and doubt. It had forced Jon to remember Mr. Spider, had forced Jon to draw connections, to think very much about lies and paranoia and manipulation. 

But something in him knew, with absolute certainty, that Martin did not lie. Not to him, anyway. He was open and straightforward in a way that seemed too good to be true, should have warned Jon off. And yet. Here he is. 

“Maybe,” Jon says, and tries to sound normal; haughty, self-assured, not scared out of his wits. “Or maybe you could have just told me what you wanted with- from- Why you wanted me to come down here. Maybe I would have come without a fuss.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think you’ll like it much, when I show you what I need.”

Jon can’t help shivering. It’s cold down here, and again, he has no clothes. He spares a glance around the little room Martin is currently occupying, but there’s no sight of his garments, only a lone lamp in one corner casting a dull, warm light. “If it’s something you don’t think I will like… then why do it at all?” 

“Because I need help,” Martin says simply, brightly, with a smile that shows his fangs. They’re black and curved and even through the haze, Jon can still remember how they felt in his shoulder. “And it can only be you.” 

“What? Why?” 

Instead of answering, Martin comes closer. He’s so big, so much bigger than he usually is when he’s around Jon. When one of his hands comes to cup Jon’s cheek, it feels like resting against a cool, scratchy pillow. Martin makes sure to keep his nails, small but sharp, from catching on Jon’s skin. He kneels down; Jon feels two more hands settle on his bare thighs. They’re big enough to wrap around the entirety of his legs, he thinks, and trembles. Martin makes a soothing noise, oddly like a hiss, and his pedipalps extend until they’re gently tapping against Jon. One bats against his collarbone while the other pushes into his hair. It should not be soothing, but Jon has let Martin do this before, and he’s gotten used to it, and he can’t help relaxing. Martin has told him that’s what it’s for, to help Jon relax. 

“It won’t be hard.” Martin’s voice is gentle and he’s smiling. Jon wants to believe him, so, so badly. “So don’t be afraid…”

Jon feels the thumbs of those hands on his legs shift, sliding inward, down into the space where his thighs are pressed so tightly together. They tug, gently. He’s prying Jon’s legs open. “Martin? Martin- wait, wait-”

“I promise it’s not going to hurt,” is whispered into his ear as Martin holds his legs apart, grip secure just under Jon’s knees, and he feels the cool air of the tunnels settle against his exposed flesh. He’s surprisingly warm in comparison. Jon feels breathless. 

He tries to push Martin away with his bound wrists, but it is, of course, no use. He couldn’t actually stop Martin, even if he wasn’t tied up, even if he could run. The weight of realizing his absolute helplessness is enough to still his efforts, if only due to paralysis from his fear. Martin seems to notice this, and tilts his head. Those eyes, pitch black and shining, stare down at him. Jon stares back, unable to do anything else. He feels one of Martin’s fingers resting against his entrance. 

“You’re scared,” Martin whispers. Jon can’t read his tone at all. He tries to glare, but his lip is quivering too much, and he’s sure his eyes are wet with unshed tears. Martin’s mouth curls into a gentle frown. “You’re too upset. It won’t work if you’re like this, darling.” 

_Darling_. Jon turns his head away and blinks, letting tears roll off his face and onto the cold stone floor. The finger tries to dip into him, cautiously, but it’s too big and too rough; Jon squirms and finally snaps, “Stop! Just- just let me do it, Martin.”

“I can be careful.”

Jon does not let himself feel in any way endeared to Martin’s stubbornness, the clear displeasure he so obviously feels at being unable to finger Jon without hurting him. “You’re too big, Martin. I can do it, just-” 

He looks up at Martin, feeling ridiculous. Martin stares back at him for much too long, too content simply in observing his catch. The frown disappears, and Martin leans forward and presses his mouth against Jon’s cheek, careful to keep his fangs behind his lips. 

“I’m going to move you,” is all the warning Jon gets before he’s picked up. He shouts, surprised, and the world around him is a dark grey blur as he’s turned around. Soon he’s staring at one wall, his back pressed against Martin’s chest. 

The next few minutes are surreal. Jon is felt up by a giant spider person while he haltingly fingers himself. It’s a little awkward with his hands still bound; he mentions this to Martin, who hums in assent and uses a claw to effortlessly tear through the silk. It doesn’t make a sound when he does so, but Jon still trembles. 

Jon tries to push away the fear, focusing on himself, his body, working it open. It’s something he’s used to, trying to make something out of nothing, out of necessity most often, and really, this isn’t so different. He closes his eyes and tries to relax against Martin's hulking frame. Lets himself be felt up by those hands. Two remain on his legs, thumbs rubbing circles into the soft flesh of his thighs. Two more move about his torso, his arms, slowly and thoroughly, as if Martin is examining him. Maybe he is. They’ve never been this close before, and Jon has no idea when Martin might have last touched a human in such a way. 

Martin rests his cheek against Jon’s head; his pedipalps nestle in the space between Jon’s shoulders and his jaw. They’re soft, firm. It feels like they’re cradling him. “You’re so warm,” Martin says, sounding inordinately pleased. “You’re perfect.” 

Part of Jon wants to argue, wants to point out that he’s likely no warmer than any other human, but another part of him is finally getting a bit into the fact that he’s got three fingers inside himself. Using his free hand to draw circles around his cock, Jon jolts in Martin’s grasp as he finally approaches some level of consistent arousal. 

“Perfect,” Martin repeats. “Perfect. You’ll do so nicely, dear thing, and I know you’ll take good care of them for me. Move your hand?”

Jon does it without much thought. It’s easier to just do what Martin says, and his hand is cramping anyway, so Jon moves it and doesn’t think too hard about Martin’s words until it’s too late. Soon something is pressing against him - something smooth and cool, something yielding in a way that Jon did not expect. And then it’s inside him. 

He can’t help the shout when it comes, but it must have startled Martin, who throws a hand over his mouth. Jon tries to complain but finds he’s distracted by the _thing_ currently inside him. He can’t see what it is - Martin’s hand is too big, and the angle makes it impossible. But it’s thick and while Jon doesn’t have any experience, really, with most elements of sex, he’s _fairly certain_ whatever it is probably isn’t anything conventionally appropriate. He sort of wants to be upset at the idea of something so utterly foreign inside him, but finds he’s more relieved that the penetration bit is out of the way. 

He expects more movement, but mostly it’s still. Jon can feel it inside, a conspicuous pressure, but there’s no thrusting once it’s deep enough. Every now and then he swears he can feel it grow, stretching him, but it’s really difficult to tell exactly what’s happening. 

He wants to ask, tries to indicate his desire to speak, but Martin’s hand is firm on his mouth. Jon realizes, belatedly, that Martin’s entire body has developed a strange tension. He’s holding Jon very carefully, no claws against his skin, but the grip is absolute and something about Martin’s silence tips Jon off. He feels his heart beat faster. Something’s about to happen. 

“Mmfn… They’re coming now,” Martin tells him. His voice is so soft, so sweet. Jon feels one of the pedipalps tap on his shoulder. “You’re doing so well for me, Jon, wonderfully, please don’t worry. You’ll do a great job with them.” 

_With what?_ he doesn’t get to ask. 

Abruptly, there’s something new pressing against him. Which doesn’t make sense, because the other thing is already inside of him. But still it’s there, an insistent prodding. Jon begins to squirm as much as he can in Martin’s grip, but there’s no escaping it. He can feel the shape of it as it gradually pushes inside: smooth and ovular, perhaps an inch in diameter. There’s a bit of strain as he’s forced to take it in. Jon breathes heavily into Martin’s hand, but it stays. He stays. He takes it. 

Once inside, all awareness of its presence fades. Rather, he feels a bit like he’s just eaten, that something in his middle is now full and satisfied. 

Then there’s another. Jon gasps in surprise, but really, why is he surprised? Why would he have expected anything less?

Each one pushes into Jon, disappears inside him. Jon tries not to squirm too much but as it goes on, he can’t help spiraling, overwhelmed and confused. What are they? Why is Martin doing this? He grumbles and whines and moans but Martin’s hand remains where it is over his mouth. Jon takes more. He feels something begin to _stretch_. 

_Too much_ , he tries and fails to say. _Too many._

“Lovely. You’re doing a wonderful job, Jon!”

_I can’t! It’s- too much!_

“There’s no need to struggle… No need to stress… I’ll take care of you, just like you’re taking care of my eggs.”

Eggs. 

He’s putting eggs into Jon. 

A spider’s eggs. 

Jon screams and cries, but Martin’s hands hold him steady through it all, and Jon’s smothered outcry does him no good. He takes each new egg with a flinch and a moan, and each sound grows more ragged. He’s so full… He can’t quite see it, but he can feel the way his stomach bulges with them. He can feel their weight, so solid inside of him, formless yet terrifyingly substantial. 

One of Martin’s hands migrates away from holding his leg up. Jon doesn’t bother trying to kick; all of him feels fuzzy and useless. He whimpers as yet another egg is pushed inside him. Martin’s hand comes to rest on his stomach. He’s so gentle, fingertips grazing the skin, outlining the subtle curve of one egg. Jon hears Martin make an affectionate sound. “Beautiful, Jon, you’re beautiful.” 

Jon cries. He takes the eggs. He comes undone and it’s a gentle, rolling sensation, one that helps him drift through the last half-dozen.

“All done,” Martin sings. He pulls out of Jon and the man can feel how much of a mess it all is, can hear something dripping on the ground. There’s a solid, impossible weight that should not be there pulling him downward. He whimpers helplessly as Martin adjusts his position. 

When his mouth is finally uncovered, Jon sniffles and asks, “Martin…?” 

“All done, all done.” The creature carries Jon over to a mattress. It’s mostly clean, spare a bit of dust. Jon recognizes it -- it’s the one Martin brought down when he’d first caught Jon, after Prentiss’ attack, and kept him underground until his leg was healed. It’s not much, but there’s a blanket and two pillows. Jon lets himself sink into the oddly familiar smell and feel of them. 

Martin rests him on his back. Jon’s natural inclination is to curl up on his side, but he gets his first look at his stomach and thinks that might not be an option. The idea of moving seems overall unappealing, anyway. 

“Thank you,” Martin chirps, smiling down at Jon even as he looms, trapping Jon in his shadow. “You took them so well, Jon.”

Jon has no idea what to say to that. He feels a little strange, looking at his stomach, and so he opts to look away. With a frown, he turns his head to the wall, and he can hear Martin whine behind him. “Oh no! Don’t be mad, love!”

“Hmph.”

“Don’t be mad!” Martin pleads. It’s with a sort of childish innocence, such a genuine, lighthearted earnestness, that never fails to earn Jon’s attention. “It could only be you, Jon.” 

“...”

“Jon, Jon, lovely Jon.” Martin has switched gears already, his voice becoming something playful, sing-song. He gently rests a hand on Jon’s stomach. The man huffs, curling up a bit, but doesn’t feel anything quite like fear or disgust. He thinks he should. “You look so cute with all my eggs…” 

“Martin.” He has nothing else to say, nothing he can say to prevent Martin’s strange kiss or his own frustrated blush. 

“Let me wrap you up?” 

Jon can’t think of a reason to say no. With his nod, Martin beams and swiftly wraps the blanket around him. Then he carefully lifts Jon into his arms, holding the man secure in his lap. There’s no possible way Jon can escape his soft prison. Somehow, he doesn’t mind at all. 

“How long,” he asks, just as sleep threatens to pull him under, “are these things going to be stuck inside of me?” 

“A week,” Martin replies. He’s been petting Jon’s hair for the past twenty minutes and Jon hates how nice it feels. He’s probably getting weird spider fur stuck in it. He should hate this. Jon grumbles and closes his eyes. Martin’s pedipalps tap lovingly against his crown. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that some of what comes next won't make sense without a bit of context about the AU this is set in, so in brief: Martin becomes a Web monster before canon. Gerry takes his place on the archival staff (what are the logistics for this? who cares). During the Prentiss attack, Jon is the one who gets separated from Tim and Gerry. He is found and saved by Martin, who has been living in the tunnels for a few years; Martin was being bothered by Prentiss and her worms, so he kills her and then takes Jon, who is injured, back to his lair for a bit of forced recovery :) 
> 
> Please heed the tags! Jon's arachnophobia takes the spotlight during the egg-laying scene. 
> 
> Terms used for Jon are hole and cock.

Jon suffers through the following week as best he can. Staying away from the archives for so long is, obviously, not an option. He demands one of Martin’s sweaters, which would be oversized on any human, and returns to his office swimming in deep blue fabric. Gerry’s stationed there, which Jon isn’t expecting, but the man doesn’t say anything as he helps Jon climb out of the tunnel entrance. 

He knows, of course, about Martin. Everyone in the archive knows about Martin, even if they don’t know much beyond the fact that he’s a monster that lives in the tunnels and has a strange fixation on Jon. They know that Jon talks to Martin from time to time -- know that Martin sometimes comes into the archives when everyone else is away. The only one who knows more than that is Elias, and Jon would have preferred to keep it that way. But, well. Even with the sweater, it’s impossible to hide the swell of his stomach in any meaningful way. 

“I’m going to need a bit of extra help over the next week,” Jon tells Gerry plainly, trying to keep his tone brusque. Lucky for him that Gerry has always been more considerate than the others when it comes to keeping out of Jon’s business. He merely nods and offers to act as go-between for Jon and the other assistants. It’s honestly a very nice gesture, one Jon isn’t expecting to hear. He fumbles when he thanks Gerry for the help; without meaning to, he makes a vague promise that he’d be willing to explain things to Gerry after his current ‘situation’ has resolved. 

Gerry is, in fact, the only thing that makes any of his time in the archives bearable. Elias makes every excuse to come into the basement to pester Jon. At first he seems merely annoyed, then concerned in that way Jon hates, like someone fretting over an expensive object and hoping it hasn’t been damaged, lest it lose a significant chunk of its value. Jon has gathered that Elias can’t see into the tunnels, so the man doesn’t have an exact idea of what happened, but it’s obvious to anyone that something has happened with Jon and he doesn’t want anyone to see him outside of his office. Tim is fairly persistent in trying to coax Jon from behind his desk, but Gerry does a pretty good job of keeping the other man distracted or busy enough that he eventually gives up. Sasha asks a few pointed questions, ones that Jon feebly deflects, but she’s always been decently courteous and must realize how genuinely uncomfortable Jon is feeling, and so she, too, drops the subject. 

Gerry fields inquiries and delivers instructions to and from Jon’s office; he brings Jon food and water, checks in after everyone else has left, brings supplies from home if he thinks Jon needs them. Jon could have kissed the man when he brought in a heating pad and rice bag, to help with his aching back and shoulders. 

The eggs themselves aren’t much of a problem, actually, and Jon is all too willing to ignore them as much as he can. It’s awkward sitting or standing with the added weight, but he lets himself get used to it, lets himself acclimate to the new feelings so he can better put them out of his mind. If he thinks about them too long, he starts to feel odd, hyper-aware of his own body heat, his skin. 

At night, Martin comes for him. He scratches at the trap door, which is totally unnecessary, forcing Jon to pull away from his work and open it up. The spider always climbs out and immediately takes Jon into his arms, sweeping the man down into the tunnels without a hint of warning. Jon does not bother resisting. 

It’s dark when they travel the tunnels, so Jon chooses to keep his eyes closed, clinging to Martin’s front as the monster swiftly makes his way deeper into the catacombs. Eventually they arrive at what Jon assumes is Martin’s nest proper: a set of rooms, connected by sheets of silk. They blanket the floors and climb up along ancient brick walls.

Jon hated being in here, at first. He’d cursed and struggled against Martin’s calm placations, his unyielding grip. He’d had to be carried over the silk and deposited onto a sofa before he would settle down. 

At least there weren’t actual spiders creeping around. Martin had assured him of that multiple times, his smile a tad unsettling as he explained he tended to eat smaller spiders that wandered into his territory, so they’d learned to keep their distance. Jon still dislikes the feeling of walking around on the silk, but he doesn’t often need to worry over it -- Martin is more than content to carry him around. 

When Martin brings Jon, heavy with his eggs, into the nest, he swiftly deposits the man onto his usual spot on the couch. Across the back of the couch is something like a blanket, thick and dull, seafoam green. It’s dreadfully soft, and Jon can’t resist pulling it down, covering himself with it. The silk isn’t faintly sticky like that which covers the room, so it’s easy to pretend it’s just some sort of normal fabric. It’s cold in the tunnels, Jon mentally justifies to himself as he snuggles into the blanket. 

Martin disappears into a different room to make tea, and the rest of the evening dissolves into a fluffy, strange pantomime of conventional domesticity. Martin often has little containers of food available for Jon to eat for dinner, and Jon has never had the nerve to ask where Martin gets them. After Martin pesters him into eating a decent portion of his meal, the spider then undresses Jon and lends him some of his old clothes. They’re smaller than what Martin wears now; the sweaters are still too big, but the sweatpants are easily adjusted to suit Jon’s slim waist. 

Sometimes Jon reads. Martin has books stashed away somewhere -- things he’d brought from home, he’d explained to Jon once. Jon wonders what ‘home’ would’ve meant to Martin, wonders where this creature lived before moving himself into the tunnels. Based on the furniture and clothes, the books, the kettle, he imagines it must have been a relatively mundane life. The question of what caused Martin to become the monster he is now haunts Jon often. He tries to push it away from his mind, focusing instead on the spider’s small collection of nonfiction books as he listens to Martin weave something in the corner. 

When Jon finally grows tired, Martin will bundle him up in the blanket and lie down on the couch, placing Jon securely against him. The soft swell of Martin’s stomach and the warmth of his huge body is far too comforting, considering the fact that Jon’s head is tucked just beneath a pair of fangs. The four arms that gently wrap around him should be another reason of wariness, but instead Jon feels secure. Even now, with his stomach heavy, Jon has no real trouble letting himself sleep. 

For several days, this is the routine. It’s consistent and Jon appreciates the relative mundanity. 

So of course this easy routine has to be rather abruptly broken in the middle of a work day. Jon’s just started on a statement when he feels a strange... resistance. He stumbles over the words, eventually coming to a full stop when the letters refuse to stop swimming before his eyes. Jon leans back in his chair and rubs at his face; the feeling fades, just a bit. But when he attempts to get back into the statement, a sharp pain sends spots dancing before his eyes. The letters blur and stretch, becoming sharp, interconnecting into meaningless patterns he simply cannot translate. They curve and bow and Jon kicks away from his desk, breathing hard. Then he feels it, a spark somewhere at the base of his spine. 

He doesn’t want to call for Gerry, but fear makes his voice ring loud and clear. By the time Gerry steps into the office, Jon’s on his back on the floor, trying and failing to breathe evenly. 

Gerry wants to take him out of the office, perhaps to the hospital, distressed at just how flushed Jon is becoming. Jon waves him off and gestures to the trap door. 

Once Gerry lifts the door, Jon reaches out and finds a single thread of silk hidden near one of the hinges. It’s nearly invisible -- Jon would never have noticed it if Martin hadn’t pointed it out specifically. All it takes is a single tug. Soon, Jon feels vibrations being carried from down the line. 

Gerry waits with him, holding Jon’s hand as he gasps and shifts with discomfort. It feels like his entire body is too small, suddenly, for the eggs. When Jon instinctively pushes against the swell of his stomach, attempting to soothe the mounting pain, he realizes the bump has actually gotten significantly bigger. He looks truly pregnant with them now; he can feel the gentle definition of each egg even through his sweater. 

Before Jon can panic, Martin’s head pops up from the gloomy depths of the tunnels. Gerry swears and kicks away from the entrance as Martin emerges, though still he clings to Jon’s sweaty hand. Jon lets his grip relax, silently telling Gerry he can pull away, and lifts his free arm to Martin. 

One pair of arms begins to grip Jon, adjust him so that he’s cradled against the creature’s soft middle. Martin, however, is still staring back at Gerry. Distantly, Jon realizes this is the first time they’ve actually seen each other. 

Pain makes Jon cry out, and the staring match is dropped as Martin dives into the tunnels, closing the door behind him. 

For a short while, everything is a blur of warmth and pain and Martin’s voice, cooing nonsense as he takes Jon to his nest. Jon is placed on the sofa. Martin’s hands - huge, clawed, and so very gentle - slide beneath Jon’s clothes. But Jon begins to panic when Martin starts to lift his sweater up. “N-no, no-”

“Hm? It has to come off, Jon,” Martin explains in that calm, easy way, like it’s a simple fact of life that Jon has to accept.

Still, Jon can’t help resisting, shaking his head. “I don’t want to- to see it. I don’t want to see them, Martin, _please.”_

“Oh?” 

Jon can’t bear the mere idea of them, not right now, because he hasn’t yet considered what _exactly_ the eggs are like. When he’d spared an idle thought to his predicament, he’d assumed they were not unlike a bird’s eggs, hard-shelled and solid. They’d certainly felt like that going in, large and firm. But now he can’t help but wonder at the way they’ve swelled, and he’s forced to think about a spider’s egg sacs, those awful little bundles of white he might spot at a park or in some little corner out in public. And he can’t stop thinking about their delicate surfaces, about the hundreds of tiny baby spiders just waiting to spill out like maggots from a bloated corpse. 

Words can’t even begin to capture the disgust and terror that rips through Jon when he contemplates this, and he’s helpless when tears begin to pool in his eyes. “Please, please,” he begs Martin, turning his head away and hiding behind his hands. “I don’t- _I can’t-”_

“Hush, love,” Martin hums into his ear. The sweater is delicately removed, and one hand falls on Jon’s stomach. He sobs into his wrists as Martin nuzzles his neck. “I’ve got you. It makes me sad to see you tremble so. Poor thing... But, oh Jon, you’ll do so wonderfully for me.”

“I can’t…” 

“You can, and you will. Take deep breaths, they’re good for you. Deep breaths... Can you do that for me?” 

Jon shakes his head but tries, forcing the tears back so he can drink the dry, cool air of the tunnels. Martin hums a nameless tune as he adjusts them both, guiding Jon so that he’s sitting with his back to Martin’s chest. His body, now totally bare, settles against Martin’s fluffy coat of fur and it’s the moment Jon realizes that Martin doesn’t have a shirt on. He’s wearing sweatpants, as usual, but his chest and stomach are exposed. The fur there is much softer than what covers the rest of his body; Jon tries to focus on the texture and catch his breath.

Jon lets out a little squeak when on of Martin’s hands falls over his face. For a moment he’s mostly surprised (and a part of him is feeling very strange about the fact that Martin is currently big enough to hold his entire head in just one hand). Then Martin says, right into his ear, “You don’t have to see if you don’t want, Jon. Is this better?” 

“I- I suppose,” Jon sighs. He lifts his hands, so much smaller, to rest against Martin’s, as if keeping him there. Martin’s tongue flicks out to wet Jon’s throat and he shivers. “And- and, Martin, when they come out, um. Could you get rid of them?”

“Rid of them?” His voice is soft and sad in a very strange way. 

“Just, um, put them away I mean,” Jon is quick to clarify. “I just don’t want to see them at all, so when they’re, ah, out, can you take them away?” 

“You don’t want to see after?”

“I’d much rather not,” Jon confirms. He tries his best to leave no room for argument in his tone. 

Martin makes a sad little noise, but hugs Jon tighter against him, hands heavy on the man’s stomach as he begins to gently stroke Jon there. “Will that make you happy?”

“Very happy.”

“Alright. Jon, it’s time I think.”

Jon knows; he feels it. The pressure is acute, demanding his full attention now that his fears have been soothed. One of Martin’s hands remains on Jon’s stomach, rubbing circles into his skin, while the others gently grip his thighs and pry them further apart. He feels cool air against his hole, already throbbing with heat and surprisingly wet. Without a thought he feels himself clench down around nothing, and it seems to encourage the eggs to shift. 

It’s strange, so very strange, the sensation of the eggs moving downward. Is it gravity which draws them out? Is it Martin’s admiring hand, outlining their shape? Or is it simply their own weight, their size -- an acknowledgement of Jon’s stature being too little to contain them? For one brief, over-bright moment, Jon is so very sure that Martin has made a mistake, that he’s too small for all the eggs as they grow, fit to burst, and some horrific disaster is mere seconds away from tearing this moment apart at the seams. He can’t help squirming and panting into Martin’s hand. 

“You’re fine,” Martin tells him, sounding absolutely certain of it. Beneath Jon, he shifts. One leg moves until it’s between Jon’s, holding his knee back. The hand that had been holding his thigh open is now free to slide down, to palm at Jon’s mound, to gently press against his cock and draw a moan out of him. “This will help. Breathe, love. They’re coming out now, and you have to let them.”

Jon actually manages a feeble laugh. “You say that as, as if- oh, _god_ \- as if that’s not what I want.”

“It might be hard -- you’re too tense.”

“Oh well pardon me for being- _ohhh, oh!”_

It’s very abrupt, when one of the eggs travels swiftly downward, away from the bundle. The pressure and stretch is overwhelming, drawing out cries from Jon as he twitches in Martin’s grasp. The spider doesn’t let up, keeps fingering Jon, very carefully, the pad of one finger pressing ever-so-slightly against his hole. It makes Jon want to rock his hips into it, but that would be too much, too much- he already feels unbelievably overstimulated. Soon enough he can feel himself stretching open. Martin pulls his hand away to make room for the egg as Jon attempts to push it out. 

It’s definitely larger coming out than it was going in. And now, without the strange ovipositor acting as a barrier, Jon can feel that the texture is smooth and solid. He tries to let that calm him, tries not to worry over the way he can’t help clenching, trying to push the egg out of his body. 

It shouldn’t feel good. He hates that it does. He’s whimpering and writhing under Martin’s many hands, hips twitching, desperate to push the egg out but relishing in the stretch and its gentle burn. 

When the egg leaves him, Jon gasps. One moment he’s too full, then all at once the pressure is gone. He hears a soft thump as the egg falls onto the couch cushion. Martin makes a deeply pleased sound, pedipalps dancing on Jon’s shoulders. “Lovely, lovely! Oh, Jon, you did wonderfully. Are you sure you don’t want to see it?” 

“N-no thank you, please.”

The spider kisses his temple, cool fangs brushing his cheek just so. “That’s alright. Keep breathing, love- there’s more coming along now.”

And they did come along, one by one. Moving inside Jon, forcing him to squirm and gasp as he lay them. They pushed him to his limit again and again, and all the while Martin helped him through it, massaging his dick with careful hands and caressing every inch of his body. Jon clutched the hand covering his eyes like a lifeline, let it smother his screams when it all got to be too much. 

By the time he’s finished, it’s impossible for Jon to tell how long they’ve been going for. It feels like hours; he’s breathless and sweaty and aching all over. He feels messy and wet between his legs, and strangely empty at his middle. His legs won’t stop trembling and Martin has to close them, carefully, on his own, as Jon’s far too exhausted to move. 

“Beautiful! Jon, you’re so beautiful, you did an amazing job. I’m going to take my hand away now.” 

“D-did you-?”

“Keep your eyes closed just a moment, and I’ll put them away. You won’t have to see, I promise. Lie down, okay? Take deep breathes and I’ll bring water when I come back.” 

“Okay,” Jon says, nodding, and he keeps his eyes closed as Martin moves away and off the couch. He carefully helps Jon rest against the opposite side of the couch where there’s not a damp mess, then Jon hears him scurry off into a different room. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. 

When Martin comes back, Jon is half asleep, but the spider rouses him enough to drink some water and let himself be cleaned and dressed. 

“Couch is a bit of a mess,” Martin tells him, humor in his voice. He cups Jon’s face in two hands and rubs his cheeks. Jon glares blearily, but the spider only grins back. “Would you like to sleep with me in my bed tonight?”

“Your… bed.” 

“Mmhm!” 

“Um… what sort of bed is it?” Jon asks wearily. 

“Bit like a hammock,” Martin explains. He’s already sliding one of his extra arms beneath Jon’s body, lifting him from the couch. “It’s silk, but you’ll be on top of me, won’t you? No need to touch any of it. Come along.” 

“You know, you ask me a lot of questions,” Jon grumbles, “and simply don’t wait for answers.”

“You’d have said yes anyway,” Martin explains with a giggle. He brings Jon into a new room, one densely webbed and mostly dark. There are a few books tucked away here and there, but what really catches Jon’s attention is the huge nest of thick webbing that dominates the opposite side of the room. Martin effortlessly climbs up until they’re halfway to the ceiling. Then he slips them into a sort of divot, just large enough for Martin. It’s dry and very dark inside, like a cave. 

“This isn’t much like a hammock,” Jon says idly, surprised by how much louder his voice sounds in the space. It must be even smaller than he can gauge. He starts to reach out, then remembers it’s webbing and shivers instead, keeping his hands close to himself. “Hammocks are suspended.” 

“This is suspended, sort of,” Martin counters, but then shrugs. There’s just enough light for Jon to see some of his face. It really shouldn’t be comforting, to see half of a monster’s face in eerie grey light, the rest cast in absolute dark. Jon can see the fine texture of his fur, the outline of one pedipalp tucked under his chin, the light as it curves along his fang. And then his eyes, darker than the shadows, glistening back at him. He shouldn’t strike Jon as something beautiful. And yet. 

“Are you comfortable?” Martin asks, his voice so very soft, so sweet. 

Jon sighs and carefully adjusts himself until he’s settled. Two of Martin’s arms are resting on the small of his back, while the other two help bracket him so he stays on the spider’s chest. “I’m fine, Martin. Just tired.” 

“That’s understandable. You’ve had a long day.”

“A long week,” Jon gently corrects, and wonders if Martin can see his smirk. He buries his face against Martin’s soft chest and mumbles, “Or perhaps a long life would be more accurate.” 

He feels Martin’s chuckles and fights his own grin. How can this part be so easy? In a sudden bout of indignation and stubbornness, Jon tries to remember how he’d felt when Martin first bit him, first bound and dragged him into the tunnels; soaks in the memory of his panic and fear and disgust when being impregnated with eggs he didn’t want to carry. But the feelings are so distant now. Even the things he’d felt when laying the eggs barely feel real, in this moment. It’s like everything had been a bad dream, every ounce of significance lost as soon as he woke up.

He can still feel the strange, empty ache in his stomach, can still remember the sweet burn of the eggs stretching him open, but all the other feelings seem so far away, intangible. Inconsequential. What’s the worth of making himself upset over them? He’s comfortable now, and he feels terribly safe. Jon presses himself further into Martin and sighs. 

Still. He’s Jonathan Sims, and there’s a question floating around in his mind. It won’t let him sleep, so after a few minutes of counting Martin’s breaths (he breathes so much slower than Jon does, and something about it sounds… off), Jon moves his head so his voice won’t be smothered by Martin’s fur. “Martin?”

“Yes, love?”

Jon wets his lips and forces himself to ask, “Will I have to do that again?” 

Martin’s silence speaks to Jon, yet it is not quite an answer. Jon forces himself not to ask again, or to pester, but simply to wait. He closes his eyes and counts two breathes from Martin. Slow and even. Relaxed, soothing. 

“Would it be a problem if you did?” Martin asks. It’s that same tone of voice he uses all the time with Jon. It should probably make him angry. It should probably worry him. A part of Jon is worried. But a larger part of Jon merely wants to sleep, so he sighs and snuggles closer. He doesn’t bother giving an answer -- Martin already knows. 

As if in reward, Jon feels the pedipalps gently tap his hair, his cheeks. “Goodnight, Martin,” he offers, then resolutely tries to sleep. 

“Goodnight, Jon,” Martin replies, and Jon can hear his smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it~ 
> 
> Might write a prequel and/or sequel to this sometime, so keep an eye out I guess?


End file.
